Things Time Cannot Erase
by freakingdork
Summary: "He wishes he could say that he doesn't know when it started, but he'd be lying to himself if he pretends he doesn't." Morgan-centric. Warnings - self-harm and sexual abuse. Oneshot. Complete.


**A/N -** This is your friendly reminder that if any of my fic disappears from this site, I crosspost to other sites as well and you can find that info on my profile.

* * *

**Things Time Cannot Erase**

* * *

He wishes he could say that he doesn't know when it started, but he'd be lying to himself if he pretends he doesn't.

* * *

He's only 10.

* * *

His father is dying and there's nothing he can do.

Blood stains his clothes.

It won't be the last time.

* * *

Buford convinces him to try football.

He doesn't see it as anything more than a kind offer from a man old enough to be his father.

* * *

He's only 11.

* * *

The first time at the cabin, he hadn't brought his swim trunks and Buford got him drunk and talked him into skinny dipping.

The second time, he brought swim trunks, but Buford still insisted on skinny dipping because it was natural, it felt better on the skin. He didn't miss the creepy glances or Buford's erection.

The third time...

* * *

It starts after he got home from his third trip to the cabin.

Scissors from his desk, his left upper arm, fast and crude and unthinking.

Nothing deep, which he'd be grateful for in the days and years to come; only light scaring with the long-lasting evidence to later be covered by tattoos.

* * *

His mama almost saw them once.

He'd been careless and brazen, wearing a tee-shirt with sleeves that barely covered the damage.

He thought of August and the blazing heat and tank tops and knew he had to find another way.

* * *

Boxers cover a multitude of sins and secrets.

* * *

He's only 12.

* * *

The other boys on the team make fun of him for not showering after practice.

"Maybe he's got a really small dick," one boy taunts.

"Yep, that's it," he says because it's nothing compared to the shame he feels about the growing number of scars.

"Naw, I saw it once," another boy says. "It sure ain't small."

"Oh c'mon, everyone knows its because Derek's a homo," Rodney sneers.

Rodney isn't expecting the punches that rain down on him.

* * *

He's black and Rodney's in a gang, so the police assume that's what it's about.

Rodney doesn't care; it gives him street cred.

He won't dispute it because Buford promises he can get it expunged when he turns 18.

It's the only good thing Buford does all year.

* * *

He's only 13.

* * *

There's a dead body of a young boy.

He thinks back to the occasional threats Buford made early on when he struggled and wonders for the first time if Buford would have actually followed through.

* * *

There's blood stains on his boxers one day after a vigorous football game.

He throws them away and the next day, he asks his mama to teach him to do his own laundry.

She thinks he's sweet for being so helpful.

* * *

He's only 14.

* * *

He knows.

He knows there's no way Buford never saw the lines, now straight and narrow from the x-acto knife he needed for art class.

Buford takes him from behind more times than not ever since he started covering his skin in scars, but there's no way Buford can grip his hips and not feel the wounds in various stages of healing.

* * *

He's only 15.

* * *

"Do you want it to hurt? Is that it?" Buford asks, taking him with far too little lube, but finally acknowledging the numerous scars that litter his thighs and hips.

There's blood after, not caused by his own hands for once.

Buford doesn't touch him for almost a year. He thinks maybe it was worth it.

* * *

He keeps hurting himself, hoping as each physical wound heals that the others will too.

They never do.

* * *

He's only 16.

* * *

The cabin was safe the first few times that summer, even when he drinks, so he isn't expecting Buford to come into his room.

It's tender and careful. It's more than he can bear.

"So good, so sweet. I love you," Buford murmurs.

His mouth tastes like pennies and acid.

* * *

He learns that nothing is safe; the only thing he can trust is the blade.

* * *

He's only 17.

* * *

It only happens a few times, always under the threat of telling talent scouts about his soon to be expunged criminal record.

He wonders if he's finally too old. He wonders if he's the only one. In the end, he pushes those thoughts away; he can't take anymore weight on his shoulders.

* * *

He's only 18.

* * *

As soon as he gets his acceptance letter, he shows it to Buford.

Buford never touches him again.

* * *

He's finally 31.

* * *

Reid never asks.

Once though, early on, Reid lightly brushes his fingers across his marred skin when he thinks he's asleep.

And it's then that he truly feels healed.

* * *

**A/N -** I love reviews and when I get a bunch of them, it really eases my anxiety regarding writing (see my profile for more explanation), but **please don't ask me to continue a fic that I've marked as complete**. While I can logically recognize it's generally a compliment to my writing and/or the general story idea, it actually aggravates my writing anxiety and makes me less likely to write overall. I hope I still get reviews from people who wish there was more, but **when I mark complete, I really do mean complete**. Thank you so much for being understanding.


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